


Finely Golden Rememberings

by Starlithorizon



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Brothers, Fluff, Gen, Holmes childhood, Kid Fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-12-03
Updated: 2013-01-17
Packaged: 2017-11-20 05:48:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 5,971
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/581967
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Starlithorizon/pseuds/Starlithorizon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Everyone likes to assume that the Holmes brothers had to endure a less-than-idyllic childhood, but everyone would be wrong.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue, or Today

**Author's Note:**

> I keep reading all these fics with distant or harsh parents, and while these fics are excellent and it works for the universe and I am sometimes inclined to believe such, I just felt like writing some familial fluff, complete with caring parents, friendly brothers, and a very picky cat.

For some peculiar reason, everyone liked to imagine that the Holmes family was a harsh one. They were prone to thinking that the brothers had been raised with distant parents, or worse. They thought of a father with an iron fist and a mother with a decidedly blinded view. To these people, there were no comfortable dinners round the kitchen table, no hugs, no bedtime stories, nothing.

Greg Lestrade imagined two boys raised by nanny after nanny, none of them quite able to deal with their peculiarities. When he thought about their past at all, it seemed a lonely one.

Molly Hooper imagined two little boys alone together in a vast library, trying their best not to listen while their parents fought and raged.

Elizabeth Hudson imagined two boys being taught right from wrong in a cruel way, which ultimately learned to their emotional difficulties.

John Watson imagined two boys, hardly different from the two men who wrought havoc in his life, sitting through stiff family functions and only speaking when spoken to, which was why Mycroft was so rigidly polite and why Sherlock was so apt to explode and burst free of societal restraints whenever possible.

Everyone's thoughts regarding the Holmes Boys' childhood were enough to force them to take a deep breath and deal with them. The imaginings made them a little kinder, a little more charitable, a little less prone to yelling at their flatmate for _forgetting the damned milk again, really Sherlock, you could remember bleach, which was **not**  on the list, but you forgot milk, which **was** , seriously? _

The brothers neither confirmed nor denied these allegations, simply because it didn't matter. Sherlock liked to use those times when John was feeling particularly sorry for him, and John never quite learned to see the pattern of less agreeable experiments coinciding with his pity.

The two brothers, who did get along more than one would ever think (even them), actually looked upon their childhood fondly. It wasn't with that kind veil that covers the worst of the bruises, to make remembering a little less painful. No, it was with a delicate golden haze, like sunlight brushing through pollen just as the sun was deciding to set on a perfect spring day. Their childhood was not perfect, of course, but it wasn't the desolate place that everyone was so wont to picture.

These fine golden memories were sacred, occasionally shared between brothers on a good day just after a particularly awful case, or after declaring war. They were used to bolster the men against the cruelties lobbed their way, whether from people ( _freak_ still cut to the bone, even with John by his side) or circumstances. When one or the other was feeling particularly dejected (not that they would ever say so, but they didn't need to), they were given a memory like a prayer, or a spell. It was healing and so exquisitely lovely that it couldn't do anything _but_ mend.

The two boys who were no longer boys but were still brothers had not survived a terrible childhood. Rather, it was so much lovelier than one might think. But don't tell John, because Sherlock has a particularly ugly experiment involving festering sheep lungs coming up, if you don't mind. John certainly will, and too much shouting might distract from the delicate work, you know.


	2. One, or the Bullies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock comes home from school with scrapes and tear-stained cheeks, and while Mycroft can't fix it, he can help his brother any way he can.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unbetaed and all that that entails. Keep in mind that my knowledge of the British education system is limited to that on Wikipedia, in the form of what seems like a very useful chart.

Mycroft was nine that first day Sherlock came home crying. It was the second day of the school year, and Sherlock's second day in primary school. At four, Sherlock was precocious. That was the word everyone attached to the wild little boy with the tears streaking down his face and the scrapes on his skin. There were concentrated on the heels of his palms and his knees, from where he'd obviously caught himself while falling. They were still bleeding slightly, electric red blood feathering out from behind the edges of the giant plasters on his knees. There were no bandages on his palms, and there was a faint red mark from where his chin had dusted against the ground.

Yes, they all called him precocious, but he was more than that. Even at four, he was a genius. Mycroft was just the same, except everyone called him gifted. There were children who were threatened by his steely gaze and massive intellect, but Mycroft had fast learned how to protect himself, how to turn everything back to the bully or to manipulate him so that he was on Mycroft's side instead. It was adaptation and manipulation, two things that would later serve him well in politics.

Sherlock, however, was only four and a rambunctious genius. He was a little well of deduction and secret-spilling who simply didn't know better. He didn't know that few things were as terrible as a four-year-old fully capable of airing out one's dirty laundry. He was too different, too much, a perfect target for bullies. Mycroft was in his second-to-last year at primary school, and he was the top dog. He would ensure his little brother's survival for the rest of his time there.

The driver ruffled the little boy's hair affectionately and grinned as Sherlock offered a nose-crinkling smile. He shuffled over to Mycroft, the smile gone from his face, and turned up the saddest eyes Mycroft had ever seen.

"I was reading during recess," the child whispered, offering an explanation unbidden. "Three boys came up to me and started making fun of me. They called me freak. One of them knew I was your brother and told me to show him how clever I was. So I did."

Mycroft's heart sank, knowing instantly what happened next. Sherlock went on.

"The biggest boy got angry with me and called me a freak. He pushed me over, which is why my hands and knees are hurt, and before he and the other boys could get me, a teacher saw and made them go away."

Those eyes were welling wih tears again, and Mycroft fought the urge to pull his little brother into a bone-crushing hug, only because he wanted Sherlock to be finished before losing the power of speech temporarily.

"Was I being bad?" Sherlock asked. "They said I was."

Here, Mycroft ignored the need to let Sherlock talk and threw his arms around the little boy. Sherlock sniffled, a bit surprised, before wrapping his own skinny little arms around his big brother's waist. They didn't always get along, but this was different. It wasn't just comfort, it was understanding. Mycroft remembered coming home during his first year at primary school after being bullied viciously. Mummy had been the first to soothe him, but Mycroft was the first at the scene this time.

Eventually, he gently extricated himself from the little boy's limpet grip, and, holding his hand, led him into the house. Their mother, an exquisitely beautiful woman whom Sherlock had certainly taken after, tutted over the wounds and kissed Sherlock on the top of those wild curls, which were still delicately blond. They wouldn't turn to his trademark black for another three years.

Sherlock explained what happened, and he got a kiss on each cheek from Mummy (known as Viola by people who were not her children), and a kiss on the nose for good measure. She told him that he had done nothing wrong, that he was a good boy, no matter what those awful boys told him.

Their father, known as Papa by the children and Sigurd by everyone else (Siggy if you're Viola), hugged the little boy and said just the same thing that Viola had.

Later that night, after dinner (which was mainly composed of Sherlock's favourite foods), and after Sherlock's bath, and after Sherlock had been tucked in, Mycroft stole into his room and sat on the edge of the bed. The nightlight in the corner shone quietly golden, banishing monsters from the wardrobe and under the bed.

He had been tempted to tell his brother to do as he had done, to lay low until he was able to work the bullies in his favour. He even opened his mouth to speak, but closed it before the words could spill out. He knew that wasn't how Sherlock worked. It simply wasn't who he was. He couldn't protect him from secondary school or university or beyond. He wouldn't tell Sherlock to fight back, because he knew from painful experience that the young boy was scrappy and would fight back if he had to. There was nothing _to_ say. None of it would stop the bullies.

Decades later, he would wish that he had taught Sherlock how to deal with them better, but cold indifference worked well enough. It didn't stop the barbs from flying, but it protected his heart. He was like his big brother, a man covered in permafrost that came from careful, meticulous practice. Caring was disadvantageous for the different, which had made their parents ache to hear about, but they were never anything less than absolutely kind and gentle.

And that night, as Mycroft struggled for words, he offered his little brother wordless comfort by holding his hand till he went to sleep.

Their parents find them the next morning, huddled together on the little bed, Mycroft's arm around Sherlock's waist, Sherlock's head tucked neatly against his big brother's chest.


	3. Two, or Mother and Son Bonding

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Viola Holmes loved to spend the day with her youngest.

Sherlock was two and Mycroft was away at their grandparents' for the afternoon. Papa was at work, and Mummy was working in the garden. Sherlock was helping by running around the garden, giggling as he tried to catch bugs in his chubby hands, flying about and getting dirt all over himself somehow. By the time he slowed down to be caught by Mummy, he was covered in black soil, and looked as though she had just pulled him out of the ground like a carrot.

"Goodness," she laughed, touching the tip of her nose against his. He shrieked with laughter at the black spot just on the end of her nose, where she had stolen some of the dirt from his face.

"Come along, love, let's get you in the bath."

It took half an hour, three towels (one of which would never be the sparkling white it once was, despite the maids' best efforts), and more green apple-scented bubbles than should be legal to get the child clean again. When he was his normal colour, Mummy led him into the kitchen to do some baking. Sigurd Holmes was an MP, using his own intelligence for Queen and Country (how Mycroft took after him!). Viola, however, used her own cleverness for those things that made the Holmes name such a prestigious one. She was on the board of more charities than could be properly counted, spearheaded more committees devoted to societal events than made sense, and did her part by working as a freelance journalist. She spent a great deal of time at home with her boys, particularly the youngest, and was grateful that she was able to watch them grow up and not some nanny.

Baking, gardening, caring for her frenetic little Sherlock, these were among some of the things that she simply didn't have to do as a woman with money. Their estate, one of many theaded along the fringes of London like a diamond necklace, was properly staffed. She just preferred to do these easy domestic things on her own. They were nirvana for her.

As she got the biscuits out of the oven, she caught her reflection in the window above the sink and smiled to herself. Her hair was a mess, and she had dirt streaked across her face like war paint. How had she not noticed? Her clothes were impeccable, though, with nary a wrinkle or speck of water from the eventful bath.

She left little Sherlock to the care of one of the maids for a few moments as she freshened up. Shortly, the pair of them would pick up Mycroft and drive into town to meet Sigurd for dinner.

On the way back to the kitchen, she heard a shout and a great crash from the kitchen, sending her flying. Sherlock was on the floor, crying and surrounded by shards of biscuit. The maid was clearly too busy cleaning the mess to pay any notice to the little boy crying on the floor.

Viola stormed into the room, and, in her steeliest voice (inherited by both Holmes brothers), told the maid to wait in the sitting room while she set things to rights. When the other woman was gone, viola crouched down and took Sherlock into her arms, shushing him and rocking him slightly. She seethed quietly in the maid's direction. She had _told_ the woman to mind Sherlock. It was one thing that she clearly hadn't been paying attention, but another entirely to ignore him in favour of picking up pieces of biscuit off the floor. At least Sherlock wasn't hurt. There would have been hell to pay if he had been. Once the boy was calmed down, she picked him up and stalked off to the sitting room. Sherlock was sent to play with his toys in the corner while she dealt with the maid.

It was over and done with in ten minutes. This was the Holmes manor (one of a few, actually), and the woman would be replaced within the week. It wasn't the first time.

With another kiss pressed to the top of Sherlock's head, the pair bundled up and went to the car to pick up the other Holmes boy. They sang songs in the car (well, Viola sang. Sherlock echoed the last word of every line with muttered conviction) and she wouldn't have it any other way.


	4. Three, or London Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft spends the day with his father.

Mycroft was eleven and he was in London with Papa. Sherlock was in school and Mummy was busy planning some memorial or other. Mycroft had the day free, so his Papa took the day off and together, they went into the frenetic city.

The place was electric with movement, with people. Tourists and average citizens mixed with the top tier of the world, so far as Mycroft was concerned. Papa pointed out other MPs as they bustled about, occasionally greeting the politicians who noticed the pair. Mycroft smiled beatifically in that way he had practiced and mastered. Even at eleven, he was better at acting the part of a politician than all the politicians he met that day. Clever and charismatic, it was clear from then (and even a bit before) that the only thing that prevented him being Prime Minister was his lack of desire for the position. Too open, too vulnerable, too public.

He was not a man of secrets for nothing.

But, at eleven, he was not quite the man he eventually became. Close, but not quite. At eleven, he was a boy who asked his Papa if they could stop into the bookstore for the latest installment of his favourite book series, as well as a new copy of War and Peace. A small chunk of the novel had fallen away from overuse.

After the bookstore (where he and his father had picked up several new books, including a book on Camillo Golgi for Sherlock and a new novel for Viola), father and son went to a little cafe that overlooked the river. The family was not one to frequent cafes, so sometimes, on days like this one, they went as a treat. Lunch was not the mildly elaborate affair it was at a normal restaurant. The people-watching was so much better here, where people were less stiff and formal.

Even at eleven, Mycroft was becoming the man he eventually became. The pair sat in the corner newr the window, Mycroft sitting so that he was able to see nearly every inch of the place. It was a habit that did not die, or even fade. He enjoyed reading the patrons quietly to his father, a little trick he indulged in very rarely. He had always known, learning from an early age, to keep his mouth shut when he did this, only preening for welcoming audiences. He'd tried to teach Sherlock, but the boy was too stubborn.

"How is school going for you?" Sigurd asked his eldest once their lunch arrived. Since it was an easy day (one that found Mycroft in blue jeans rather than his school uniform or the dressier things required by societal doings he was forced to sit through), the pair had ordered easy things. Sandwiches with chips, iced tea, lemonade.

Mycroft bit his lip for a moment, something alarmingly close to guilt or shame chewing at him. His father asked the question every week, and Mycroft answered every week, but he'd been keeping a secret for the past month. It was not terrible keeping secrets, he was terribly good at it. He enjoyed it, flexed his lying muscles to keep in practice and improve, training for a career he didn't even know existed.

"Oh, I'm doing well," Mycroft started, fidgeting with the straw in his drink. He didn't normally fidget when he lied, and he was only barely lying. He actually hated being dishonest with his family, unlike most children his age. He spent so much time being sneaky and elusive that he felt like he was working overtime when he lied to them.

"That's good to hear," Papa said, taking a sip of his own drink. Of course, he noticed the way Mycroft was fidgeting and knew that something was not entirely right, but he knew better. Sigurd Holmes might not have been the a genius like his sons, but that did not mean he was not incredibly sharp. Besides, he knew few things like he knew his older son. _Just give him time_. He'd been saying that for a month. "How are you doing in maths?"

"Oh, wonderfully," Mycroft admitted. It was no secret he was an advanced student, one of the best in the school. It said quite a bit, considering how prestigious the school was. "I'm the best in the class."

"History?"

"Excellent."

"Biology?"

"Pretty well."

On and on the list went, the pair working through the boy's many classes. It was an extraordinarily full load, but he managed it well. It was just his first year in secondary school, but that hardly mattered. The boy was taking on course loads that even graduating students wouldn't dare.

Eventually though, they got to the thing Mycroft had been hiding. Sigurd had noticed the way his boy flinched when it was brough up, so he was waiting for Mycroft to tell him.

"Phys ed?"

Mycroft stilled. He was resolved to do it, to tell his father the truth. Even if it was unpleasant and embarrassing. _Deep breath, Mycroft_.

"I'm not failing," he said, and it was the truth. Though not entirely. "I'm not doing well, though."

Sigurd fought the compulsion to nod sympathetically, to admit to knowing the whole time. Mycroft _knew_ that he knew, but it was important to let him have this. It was necessary.

"What's the trouble there?"

Mycroft just sighed heavily. "I'm awful at sport, Papa! I can barely run, I have nearly no hand-eye coordination, and for the past two weeks, it's been _rugby_! I could manage if I didn't have to run around like some fool. I understand the game. I'd be good as a coach, but I'm not allowed to do that."

Sigurd patted his boy's hand sympathetically. He knew how awful it was for Mycroft to be bad at something. It was new ground, to be sure.

"Maybe rugby isn't for you. Running, catching, those don't have to be your things. You're quite good at fencing, though, and those martial arts. Anything else you'd like to learn, you're free to. Just try your best, and soon the rugby will be over."

"But what if I'm terrible at the next thing?"

His Papa smiled.

"Then we'll find something new to be good at."


	5. Four, or Saturday Nights

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Saturday nights are sacred in the Holmes household.

Mycroft was thirteen and Sherlock was eight when they were called to dinner one Saturday night. Saturdays were special, sacred. Viola cooked dinner for her family and they all ate around the kitchen table together. They frequently ate together, but usually, at least one member of the family was out doing something else, thus preventing the whole family from gathering. Whether Sigurd had work, Viola had a function, Sherlock had his violin lessons, or Mycroft had one of many club/orchestra/study group meetings to attend, they didn't get this sort of chance through the week.

Plus, Viola only cooked once a week. Usually, it was a member of the staff (those guessing that the Holmes family had a cook were correct) cooking, or a fancy dinner at a restaurant, or takeaway. She often made the French dishes her grandmére had taught her as a girl, though sometimes she got a bit ambitious and fed her family Mexican food (because these nights, Sherlock had developed a special fondness for mole) or Japanese delicacies.

Tonight was a mole night, and both Mycroft and Sigurd had glasses of milk beside their plates. They were far too English to tolerate the spiciness that Viola and her youngest enjoyed so much. In fact, Sherlock had only met one other Englishman who loved hot foods, and that man had been none other than John Watson.

They were sat round the table, the boys smiling more freely than they ever did during the week. Sherlock had bruises on his skin from where the bullies had attacked, but the bruising pattern on his knuckles made Mycroft rest closer to something like easy. Both Mummy and Papa had tutted over the injures and fighting, but they'd been doing that since the day Sherlock started fighting back. From the age of six, it became clear that _scrappy_ was an understatement. The kid fought dirty.

At seven, he'd started the same self-defense class that Mycroft had taken, and, like his big brother, he excelled.

It didn't stop the bullies, but it damn well slowed them down.

"How are your violin lessons doing, Sherlock?" Papa asked, smiling down at the dangerous little whirlwind. Sherlock grinned.

"Really well!" he chirped. "Mrs Harding says I'm one of the best students she's ever had. She wants me to join the orchestra next year."

Sherlock always glowed a little when he talked about the violin. He was proficient in a few instruments, the violin was a part of him. He'd been playing for a little over two years, and already he was prodigy-good. In only a couple years' time, he'd be composing his own melodies for that extension of his being. If it hadn't been for the crimes, he could have gone professional with it.

(As it was, during his darker days, he would sometimes busk for cash. His violin kept him in cocaine, and made him a bit of a landmark for a while.)

"And Mycroft, how is debate club going?"

Mycroft was fast becoming the man he would later end up being. His classes were feeding that extraordinary brain at a rate that made his teachers either terrified or thrilled. He nurtured relationships with those teachers and student who admired him, and used them to his advantage for years after.

While they ate, the boys sometimes fussed at each other the way brothers had always done, and will always do. There was the occasional kick to the ankle and angelic look that said, "Wasn't me" from Sherlock. Perhaps the odd pinch on the arm when neither parent was looking and a raised eyebrow that said "Retaliate if you dare" from Mycroft. They lobbed jokes and mild insults at each other, interweaving them in their conversation so easily that no one was sure if they were meant to mean or simply communicate.

They discussed chemistry, crimes, politics, history, everything with each other and their parents (mainly each other) in the same way that other boys their age discussed bicycles and films. Most adults were alarmed by their peculiarities (especially Sherlock's), but their parents always smiled, nodded, encouraged fiercely. They defended their boys if it was ever needed, more from the need to correct the wrongdoer than to clear the Holmes name. That was almost irrelevant. They were special, obviously meant for great things. It didn't matter that no one else got that. The only ones who mattered were the ones who cared.

* * *

Saturday night dinners went on long after both parents passed away. It was always a bit disappointing when the boys couldn't make it from university (first Mycroft, then Sherlock), but they always tried. During his Dark Days, Sherlock never went to family dinner, and Mycroft made sure their parents only knew the important things.

Later, when Sherlok found some brightness (first in the form of DI Lestrade and cases, then in a short, loyal army doctor), only cases prevented Sherlock from coming to Saturday night dinner. There were a few months where he had simply stayed away during the Woman's first death, then those three years when he was out dealing with the vestiges of Moriarty's web, but other than that, it was ritual. Only the most important meetings prevented Mycroft from going.

Several years after Sherlock met John, there was a new addition to the dinner table, one that accompanied Sherlock from that dinner on.


	6. Five, or Golgi Cell I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft adopted the cat, but it was obvious that it belonged to Sherlock.

Mycroft was sixteen and Sherlock was eleven when they got the cat.

It was a surprisingly mangy thing, considering that it was supposed to be for the older brother. After brushing it and feeding it and watching it sleep in the sunlight, though, it quickly became a kind thing with gleaming orange fur and intelligent golden eyes. Mycroft tutted to the cat all day, offering treats and  a scratch behind the ears, but it never quite took a shine to him. Oh, it ate the treats and accepted the petting, but it was clear that it was Sherlock's cat from the get-go.

Mycroft bought it a collar (emerald green with a little silver bell that chimed musically when the cat moved and pounced and stalked), an elaborate set of dishes for food and water (and, once or twice, cream that still didn't change it's opinion of him), toys, treats, everything a member of the feline persuasion might want. But still, it was Sherlock's cat.

One evening, Mycroft stood at the back door, trying to get it to come in from the garden.

"Plato!" he called, making _tch-tch-tch_  noises. Sherlock, who was sitting in the kitchen and reading a book about fungi, snickered quietly under his breath. Mycroft whirled, glaring at his little brother for a moment before turning back to his task.

"Plato, here, kittykittykitty."

"Why are you calling him Plato?" Sherlock drawled from his place. Mycroft glowered, aiming it at an oak tree as he continued his useless task.

"Because that's his name, obviously."

He was five years older, with more years of education and life experience than the younger boy, but Sherlock had an eerie way of getting under one's skin and making one second guess everything. It didn't matter whether you were right or wrong, he used his trick on everyone. He did it simply by speaking, by looking at you, by vivisection without ever drawing a scalpel. The boy was downright creepy sometimes.

"You're not usually that thick, Mycroft," the boy said, rising from his seat lithely, using his lanky limbs to propel him up and out. He slunk close to Mycroft and leaned in. "You're slipping."

Those were two words Sherlock loved to throw Mycroft's way when he thought his older brother was being especially dull. He loved the way it made the man cringe.

Sherlock leaned halfway out the door gripping the frame and looking rather like a flag hanging from a pole. Took a deep pull of air and then called out his cat's name.

"Golgi!" he shouted, the word carrying out and out and bouncing off trees and bushes and blades of grass. It was quiet for a moment, but then, they both heard it. The unmistakable jingle preceded the orange cat, who came tearing through the garden to land at Sherlock's feet. He wove round Sherlock's ankles, meowing and looking up at his human, looking for affection. The boy smiled and crouched down to scratch his cat's chin. Mycroft could hear the traitorous creature purring from inside the kitchen.

"You named your cat _Golgi_?" Mycroft sneered. Sherlock shot a sharp look his way.

"Yes."

"After the organelle?"

Sherlock made a noise that was the verbal equivalent of a sneer.

"Of course not, don't be daft. I named him after Camillo Golgi, the Italian neuroscientist. Nobel prize winner. He discovered the Golgi apparatus."

Right. Nothing like being lectured in biological history by one's five-years-younger brother to make one feel inferior. Not to mention the thing with the cat.

Rotten beasts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Camillo Golgi is kind of awesome, and so was his mustache. Google him, and be amazed.*
> 
> *Amazement not guaranteed. Sorry.


	7. Six, or Seven Seas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Dread Captain Sherlock recruits a new first mate.

A fourteen-year-old Mycroft sighed deeply as his nine-year-old brother bolted about the garden, yelling and brandishing a plastic cutlass. The toy gleamed in the sun, and it was easy enough to imagine that it was metal shining excitedly in the light.

Sherlock shouted things that made Mycroft chuckle deep into the open pages of his book. Phrases like _Arr, matey_ , and _swab the poop-deck_ floated around the golden-green space like the heavy fragrance of Mummy's roses. The younger boy thrust his sword here and there, presumably running the bad guys through. Although, if he was being a pirate, perhaps he was dispatching the good guys. Mycroft wondered idly if Sherlock the Pirate was a noble fellow.

"Arr!" Sherlock snarled at him, his voice too fine and light to sound very threatening. "You there. I'm looking for a good man to sail my ship. Will you be that man?"

Mycroft raised an eyebrow, sinking neatly into his self-appointed role of distant elder brother. He raised his book pointedly, waited just long enough for Sherlock to read the title, and returned to the stuffy words and even stuffier ideas. Politics were dry on the best of days, but this book made it seem deadly-dull. Emphasis on the _deadly_. So boring that it could make one's heart stop beating from sheer boredom.

Not two minutes later, Sherlock was back, poking Mycroft in the forehad with his cutlass.

"Rotten little beast," Mycroft grumbled through a clenched jaw, refusing to look up at his brother. Who poked him again. And again. And another three times until Mycroft was just a breath away from pelting the book at the boy.

"What do you want?" he snapped, finally looking up. The younger boy grinned like trouble (something he would perfect at uni), but his eyes were cautious. He didn't want Mycroft to be annoyed, but he _did_  want to play. Over the years, Mycroft had been less and less obliging, and he could see Sherlock's loneliness as a direct result. The boy had no real friends, an atrocity Mycroft was only too familiar with. He felt guilty, but at the same time, he knew it wasn't entirely his fault.

That didn't help things, though.

With a barely-masked sigh that sounded like the very slogan for long-suffering, he set the book aside and got to this feet.

"Who am I to be?" he asked the piratical little boy. Sherlock pursed his lips in thought for a moment before bursting forth in eager decision.

"You can be my first mate," he said cheerfully, grinning up at Mycroft. The older boy grinned down ruefully at the little one.

It wasn't long before they were running around together, shouting words that were barely words, Mycroft singing bawdy songs that would make any pirate proud (Mummy less so), Sherlock grinning more widely than anyone would ever think possible. They finally trudged into the house just ten minutes before supper, only barely long enough to pile Sherlock's pirate things in the chest at the foot of his bed and wash up.

It hadn't happened again, since Mycroft was getting far too busy to entertain even himself, but it was one of those sweetest things he carried all his life. Sherlock never let on, but he was just the same.

* * *

Decades later, Sherlock mumbled, groggy with sleep, "You're my first mate now, John." This was shortly after being fished out of the Thames (again), and while he was wonky with exhaustion and so etching dangerously near hypothermia, he was fully aware of the honour he was giving to John. Not so far away, a man in a three-piece suit and a penchant for looking in on the pair via surveillance equipment smiled to himself. There was no better right-hand man to the Dread Captain Sherlock.


	8. Seven, or Tale of Two Cities

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock interrupts Mycroft's reading, but it isn't all bad.

At the age of seven (and even a bit before, and certainly after), Sherlock was quite prone to running himself ragged. It started out the way it normally did with a child, running around and slaying dragons and never stopping until they simply dropped from exhaustion. Usually, this was once he'd been bathed and tucked in and read to, despite his stubborn cry of, "I'm not tired!" Of course, it later came from running around and battling baddies for days at a time, but it was still completely normal for him.

Mycroft, aged twelve, wasn't particularly fond of this habit. Mainly because it mostly consisted of Sherlock spending as much time as possible hovering around his brother as humanly possible. Every quiet moment the boy tried to take was almost immediately taken away by the younger.

One rainy afternoon, Mycroft was tucked up on one of the plush loveseats in the library, a heavy old novel open on his lap. The dusty scent of the pages mingled with the easy warmth from the fire in the grate and the pattering rain outside. It was the type of day that Mycroft would always enjoy, would continually seek out and take for his own.

Of course, the peace was short-lived that afternoon. Sherlock broke in with a shout, brandishing a wooden sword and yelling about a dragon. He wasn't saving some damsel in distress, but rather the entirety of London. He was nothing if not a big dreamer.

Sherlock ignored Mycroft for a while, and Mycroft did his best to ignore Sherlock. Eventually, though, Sherlock decided that his game needed more participants, or perhaps an audience. The wooden sword jabbed Mycroft weakly in the shoulder, forcing the older boy to look up with a glare. His glower didn't so much as slow Sherlcok down. Sherlock's grin was enormous, and halfway to infectious.

" _What_?" Mycroft snapped. Sherlock positively beamed.

"What're you reading?"

"Nothing that concerns you."

Of course, Sherlock wasn't fazed. _Stubborn_ barely described him. He simply didn't hear the word no. Because of this lovely little trait that would later serve him well (as well as act in his destruction), he climbed up onto the loveseat beside Mycroft. He snuggled in against his brother's side, sword still in hand.

"Read it to me."

"It won't be interesting to you," Mycroft protested, even as his arm moved to drape itself over the little boy.

"Doesn't matter."

Promptly after his declaration, Sherlock yawned hugely, and Mycroft smiled in spite of himself. He read aloud quietly, the droning words of Dickens flowing out and around, wrapping the pair in peace again. It wasn't long (at all) before Sherlock was asleep, breathing evenly, hand relaxing around the hilt of his sword. Mycroft paused briefly to look down at the wild head of curls.

He had to admit deep ( _deep_ ) within his heart of hearts, he really did love the little cretin.

So, with Sherlock sleeping in the crook between Mycroft's body and the back of the loveseat, the fire cracking in the fireplace, rain pattering against the house, and the dusty smell of old books still on the air, Mycroft read quietly aloud to himself, finding his peace again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Everyone does vignettes like this, but can you blame me? It is entirely to adorable, and the best thing in the world to think of.


End file.
